Authors: Daphna Edwards Ziman
Kelly ran her cursor over the section headings and hovered over
OUR PEOPLE
. She glanced at Kevin and Libby, who had moved their heads together and were reading from the same book, Libby pointing at the pictures and Kevin following the words with his finger. Kelly’s heart gave a tug. She clicked on the chosen link, and a picture of a handsome man filled half the screen. A title next to the photograph read:
Todd Gillis, Founder and President of American Capital Investment Bank.
Todd Gillis’s driving passion is making money for the investors in his bank. As president, he has been a tireless advocate for every customer, small or large. His many donations and countless hours given to charities—in particular, the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation and Meals on Wheels—show his belief in supporting the community on every level.
After earning an MBA from the Wharton School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania, he pursued a PhD in economics from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Mr. Gillis is the recipient of numerous awards and citations, including a Meritorious Achievement Award from the Department of Commerce.
Mr. Gillis and his family live in Houston, Texas.
Kelly studied the photo for a moment, as if memorizing the man’s
features. Then she closed the window and clicked on
BRANCH LOCATIONS
. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, choosing the information she needed. She plugged in her Sidekick and downloaded a list of ACIB branches in Arizona as well as a list of the branches in Southern California. She downloaded a map to each location. When she was done, she folded up the Sidekick and slid it into her purse.
She glanced at her children. They were still engrossed in their books. She had some time. The third and final search: the mark. Kelly brought out her Sidekick again and Googled
Joan Davis, Beverly Hills.
Three listings came up, and she saved them all. She repeated the search, typing
Los Angeles
in place of
Beverly Hills.
The computer paused, then came up with seven entries. Again Kelly saved them. She snapped the Sidekick shut. Enough for now.
She tiptoed over to the children. “You ready to get something to eat?” she whispered.
“Read to us, Mommy,” begged Libby. Kelly glanced around the library, which was quiet and nearly empty. She sighed.
“Okay. But only for a few minutes.”
She settled in between the children, sitting so she could see the front door. Then, scanning the entrance and the parking lot beyond every thirty seconds or so, she read aloud for a half hour before setting out to find dinner.
AFTER THE DISASTROUS MEETING WITH THE FBI, Jake had spent the rest of the day wrangling the media, working them like a prostitute works a john—giving only the story he wanted them to hear. Now it was nine o’clock, and he was driving back to the hotel from the NBC affiliate studios. He knew he needed to sleep, but his brain wasn’t showing signs of shutting off. He needed something to flick the switch. Not alcohol, though. Nothing that would leave him hungover and blurry.
All day he had been trying to process Suzanne’s reaction to this whole mess. She seemed to be so composed—hardly grieving at all. She also appeared to be mad at Porter instead of at the killer. Infidelity or not, was that normal for the circumstances? Maybe. Could she actually be a step ahead of Jake in the grieving department? Jake snorted. Knowing Suzanne, she’d already gotten a diploma in Getting Over Your Husband’s Murder, and it was at the frame shop, ready to be picked up. On the other hand, maybe she was just genuinely
worried about the world learning about Porter’s affair and the effect on his legacy—and hers.
Jake knew the love had been missing from Porter and Suzanne’s marriage for some time. Suzanne spent most of her time in Los Angeles, with what she called “her” people. Jake had often wondered why Suzanne had married Porter at all. She was a Southern Californian, born and bred—fifth generation and uselessly proud of the fact. Why she had agreed to give up the smell of eucalyptus and the sight of flammable brown hills to follow him to Nevada and later to Washington was beyond Jake. Through campaign after campaign, they had settled into a certain camaraderie: Porter rarely demanded her presence in DC or at his appearances, and she, appreciative of his light touch, helped him as much as she could tolerate. Eventually they were on their own more than they were together, and what romance they’d had in the past had inevitably cooled. Even so, Jake had never once heard Porter even fantasize about cheating on her.
Jake’s phone buzzed.
“Brooks, it’s Carlen.” Jake tapped the brake as he approached a red light. Randy Carlen had been a faithful and generous donor to Porter’s campaign and had hosted the fund-raiser where Porter had given his final speech, the night before the murder.
Last night
, thought Jake, barely believing it. Carlen’s fortune had come through his grandmother, who had built a chain of Nevada hotels that doubled as brothels. As the sole remaining heir, Carlen now spent his time managing the hotels and his fortune, proud never to forget a working girl’s name. In fact, he loved them all. “Bad girls gone bad,” he’d say.
“What can I say?” continued Carlen without waiting for Jake’s greeting. “I’ve been trying to call you.” Carlen broke off into an emphysemic hack, ending with an enormous, mucus-clearing gargle. Jake had heard the cough often enough to know that the pause that
followed it was Carlen taking another drag on his Cuban cigar. The man was short but stocky, and the lifts in his shoes (as well as the constant halo of smoke around him) gave the impression of his being a much bigger man. “Fucking pisser about Garrett.” Jake nodded his agreement, knowing Carlen couldn’t see his affirmation but wouldn’t be waiting for it anyway. “What can I do to help? Anything, just ask.”
Jake hesitated. As with Suzanne, he knew that his frustration with the investigation needed to be played carefully. “You meant a lot to him,” Jake said. “Your support meant a hell of a lot.” He accelerated out of the intersection when the light turned green. “He’d have wanted you at the funeral.”
“I’ll be there,” drawled Carlen. “I’ve been talking with Suzie. But you let me know if you need anything else. You hear about anything you need, I’ll get it for you.”
“I appreciate it,” said Jake. “See you in LA.”
“Oh, one other thing,” pressed Carlen. “I have an associate who’s starting out in TV. She’s doing a feature about Garrett and says you folks aren’t getting back to her. I know it’s a busy time, but I’d be much obliged if you could call her, give her a few minutes of your time.”
Out of habit, Jake said, “Of course. Have her call me,” forgetting that his need for men like Carlen was now virtually nil. It was the sort of favor Porter used to do routinely without complaining. But now that Porter didn’t need them, Jake didn’t need them.
The phone rang again almost as soon as Jake hung up. Carlen’s “associate” introduced herself and begged Jake to come down to the station. Jake cursed to himself for having promised Carlen he’d help out, but agreed to do it.
* * *
The “station” turned out to be the student TV station in the basement of the Theater Arts Department of Las Vegas Community College.
The collection of rooms at the student TV station smelled like a wet dog. The furniture looked as though it had been donated by a homeless shelter: tattered couches in 1970s orange and brown lined a long hallway, their cushions long ago worn shapeless, the varnish rubbed off their wooden arms. Undergraduates were draped across them in assorted stages of sleep and wakefulness, tattoos blossoming across various exposed body parts. The walls were lined with cheaply framed posters of news shows and radio plays.
Jake saw a student heading down the hallway toward him. Purple corduroy jeans hung from her slender hips; a vintage black Kiss T-shirt rode just high enough to offer a juicy slice of her flat belly. Her eyes flickered with recognition.
“Jake Brooks? Well, welcome to our lair. All hell has just broken loose in what the diehards here call the newsroom. Logan asked me to apologize and tell you she’ll be here ‘shortly.’” The girl drew air quotes around the word. “You can wait in here.”
Jake followed her to a dingy room with fluorescent lights and a peeling Formica table. The smell of scorched coffee rose from the belching drip machine in the corner. On the counter sat a plastic dish next to a note card with the words
COFFEE—50 CENTS/CUP. ON YOUR HONOR
written on it in blue Sharpie.
The girl smiled. “Cup of coffee?”
Jake shrugged and tossed a five-dollar bill into the plastic dish. “Make it a double.”
“Big spender. Look out.” She poured the thick black fluid into a Styrofoam cup and gave it to Jake. She held out her other hand to shake his. “I’m Morgan. The engineer.” Her grip was surprisingly strong. Jake noticed narrow muscles roping up her forearms. She saw him notice. “Yoga. You ever try it?”
“I was doing downward dogs before you were in diapers. I gave it up—inner peace, all that crap. Just give me a few heavy things to lift every once in a while. The occasional horse to ride.”
Morgan smiled. “Studio’s through here,” she said, leading Jake into a room with two old armchairs facing each other in front of a tattered blue curtain. “I’ll be right over there.” She pointed to the window through which Jake could see a giant mixing board. “If you need anything.”
At that moment a tall, blonde woman rushed into the room. “Jake, this is Logan.” Morgan grinned.
The reporter also flashed her white teeth at Jake. The woman, clearly Carlen’s latest “girlfriend,” sat with Jake in front of the cameras and nervously asked polite questions about Porter, leaning forward with what she thought was amiable sympathy.
When the interview was done, Morgan gave Jake a thumbs-up through the window. On his way out, Jake found her and gave her his card.
“You ever need any legal advice, you call me,” he said. “Those yoga teachers are torts just waiting to happen.”
Morgan checked her watch. “I’m off right now.” Her aquamarine eyes were bright and teasing, and she wiped a purple-streaked shank of hair off her forehead. Jake paused. This could be just what he had been looking for, to help him shut off his mind.
“Do you know Olive’s at the Venetian?”
“Hate it. How about Opal?”
Jake grinned. “Ten minutes?”
“Twenty.”
Opal was poolside on a rooftop, with a view of all Las Vegas shimmering around it. Morgan was late, so Jake ordered a tequila shot and waited on a ruby-red, velvet-cushioned stool. When Morgan ambled up, unapologetic, they had a drink, then decided to skip
dinner. The tension between them was mounting pleasurably. Jake followed Morgan’s black Jetta back to her apartment. Inside, she opened a bottle of wine and lit about eight dozen candles in the living room. She didn’t have a lot of furniture, but there was a long, low table and some scratchy kilims and a huge pile of floor cushions that could have come out of a yurt in Mongolia. Her approach wasn’t a bit shy or coy, and when they were naked and fucking on the floor, her toned athletic body moved with confidence. She had beautiful, strong legs and broad shoulders … Jake found he needed to fixate on each individual body part just to keep his mind from caving in with thoughts of Porter and Suzanne, of the whole mess of who and why, and of the sordid aftermath of hairs and blood and skin …
* * *
“Hey, big spender.” Morgan was shaking him.
“What time is it?” Jake mumbled, embarrassed and irritated with himself.
“We dozed off. It’s almost two.”
“Shit. I’ve got to go.”
“It’s okay. I was getting ready to kick you out,” Morgan teased, without a trace of guilt or agenda. “Nice job.”
“Yeah. You too.” Jake dressed quickly. He kissed her cheek, then jogged down the stairs to his car, pushing the remote on his keychain. The Mercedes blinked at him, and he got in behind the wheel. Morgan waved and disappeared behind her door. Jake felt completely dislocated. Morgan had shaken him out of a dream he didn’t want to be having—but one he hadn’t wanted to wake up from. The songstress from Shrake’s nightclub, wearing nothing but the Marilyn wig and black gloves, was singing to him in an empty room. He sat on a chair in the middle of the room. Her gloved hands wrapped around the mike, but instead of singing lyrics into it, she was singing questions
that didn’t quite make sense: “When did you see Porter?” “Why did you see him?” “Which way did Porter fall?”
And then Jake had noticed that all around the perimeter of the room were television cameras, each operated by someone he knew. Suzanne peered around the eyepiece of hers, mouthing questions. He saw the pig-eyed nightclub owner. Alana Sutter. The FBI agents, Norris and Brewer. Cooper and Randy Carlen were there. The singer-dancer in the platinum wig was moving closer and closer. There was a voyeuristic quality to having an audience, and he was enjoying it. In one fluid movement, the Marilyn look-alike straddled him, and as she leaned forward, breathing, “Hey, big spender …,” Morgan had jostled him awake.
A thought suddenly occurred to Jake as he revved the engine and backed out of the parking place. He could just ask the Marilyn dancer a few questions. He was wide-awake now anyway. He steered the car in the direction of the nightclub, secretly pleased to have come up with an official reason (or maybe it was just an excuse) to visit a certain blonde wig. Though he couldn’t believe that, after all the horizontal action with Morgan, he was getting aroused by just thinking about the woman in the red satin dress.
* * *
The man guarding the back door of the club either recognized Jake or wasn’t getting paid enough, because he nodded the celebrity attorney through with barely a blink as he pocketed his twenty-dollar bill. Jake strode down a backstage hallway, invigorated, suddenly wide-awake with purpose. He found the door he was looking for and threw it open.
“Excuse me, ladies.” Half a dozen dancers looked up, bored. Their dressing room was cramped and stuffy, thick with the smell of cigarettes, perfume, and sweat.